a cure
by sexyvanillatiger
Summary: And so he sets out to make him forget. Kirk/Chekov; Slash.


When he looks up, it's not him.

The same face, but it's not him.

There's something about the slight curve of his lips and the tilt of his brow and the careless flick of his fingers that tell him he has forgotten, for the most part, what he set out to make him forget.

It could've been the vodka.

It could've been the way Jim's lips move like _oh_ over all of the right places, and something in the writhing tangle of limbs responds like _ah_ in all of the right ways. Maybe it's the way _ohgod_ has become _Jim_ and _fuckfuckfuck_ is turning into Russian for _iloveyou_. Beholders, as they say.

And maybe, as acting captain, he shouldn't be using vodka as a cure or seduction. He's never needed to before. But he's never seen anyone so ready to forget. Not without consequences, he'd said, not without consequences and he didn't say that it would be McCoy's advice, and Spock would agree with a logical nod of his head, because he never wanted to see the hurt in those eyes or rejection or sense of failure. A child so young was never meant to look that way.

Meanwhile, the thought had pained him that yesyesyes – this was what he was born to look like. All the sweeps of his eyes over San Francisco had adopted this picture from the background of every classroom and the long walks down hallways and he carries it around because it is beautiful even though a child so young was never meant to look this way.

The vodka helped.

Like the cure from not a doctor, but from experience.

It had helped with the sex.

A child so young was never supposed to be so good at this. Not when his baby blues were so big and empty and devoid of everything except the heart on his sleeve. Not when the bounce of his curls hadn't yet been dampened with the truth at hand, and his porcelain skin wasn't sickly with the reality of it all. Not when his limbs could twist like ribbons and it was a shock to see those ribbons dance that night.

_You may be naïve,_

_ But I know you're not stupid._

Not your fault, of course, not your fault. Couldn't've seen it. Forgiven. Forgiven. Forgiven.

_I've heard enough_.

It had helped the sex. Couldn't even get him to look up, away from his lithe, piano fingers. _So remind me_. he starts. _Where was vodka invented?_ And he slaps a shot glass on the table before the ensign, because nobody else is around and children should not be left alone. Not in a time like this. How cruel someone could be to leave him alone in a time like this.

The first shot feels foreign. Maybe it's been too long since he's had vodka. Straight.

But he tilts his head back and down down down it goes, nowhere near as smooth as it does for the Russian native he's doing this for. When the words start stumbling and the road blocks in their minds caution them away from certain subjects, that is when he turns his head to see that genuine smile, the first one from him in over an hour, when it's never left his face before. Maybe he moved the first two inches, half the distance in the slight twitch of his neck. But Pavel meets him on the frontline and they tangle like ribbons, dancing ribbons, and it's a shock to see a child so young like this. Their lips, loved together like folded paper, they can dance, too.

It must've been the vodka.

Jim isn't sure he's ever kissed so good in his life. He can't even remember when his tongue got dragged into it, or even if he, himself rolled it out, but he does know that they're on a bed when they used to be on barstools. That was probably the hallway. He runs his fingers down that child's body and it feels like ribbons, all silken and twisted. Never has he seen a body move like that. For a few brief seconds, he questions this child's species, because this can't be human. But then, Pavel's tongue flicks against him and _ohlordjesuschrist_ he forgets what human even is.

_I want—_ is the last English he can recall before he takes exactly what he wants, and it must hurt because it's so goddamn tight. That most definitely isn't human. Can't be. It feels too…virgin.

And Jim wishes he could speak Russian, because the last thing he wants is to be in a conversation he can't understand. But then the though strikes him to just enjoy the noise, because in a bed amongst a sea of tangled and disoriented standard-issue sheets, the Russians invented the language of love. And Jim believes it.

And when he looks up at him, it isn't him.

Because he's forgotten, and it's now the child that bounded across the ship to save his life. That's not who the child is, not after losing her, but it's who Jim sees him as for these last few moments. Who he doesn't even need to see him as, when his vision whitens and fades, and the Russian in the distance becomes muffled.

A child so young was never meant to look this way, with his curls matted to his forehead, his cheeks tinted a feverish pink and baby blues show a sort of knowing that Jim feels guilty for teaching him.

It had been the vodka. Captain James T. Kirk will not take blame for something like this. A child so young wasn't meant to take a cure like this, this is a man's cure and it doesn't come without consequences. He murmurs that it's McCoy's advice, and even Spock would agree with the curt nod of his head. And he doesn't understand the question when Pavel asks him if he's heard of the Russians' alcohol tolerance.

He hasn't. The child is remembering again.


End file.
